King of Swords
by tir-synni
Summary: All hunters expected to die. Few expected to be maimed. John, Dean, gen.


Title: King of Swords  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: slightly graphic content, adult content, Dean-whumpage  
Summary: All hunters expected to die. Few expected to be maimed. John, Dean, gen.

King of Swords

Whereas other people prayed to God, John Winchester prayed to Mary.

Sam had once accused him of having a complex concerning her, making her out to be a saint rather than the real woman she had been. John had never raised a hand to either of his children, but he might have that day if Dean hadn't been so quick hauling Sam out of there.

John did remember her flaws like her stubbornness, her silent but deadly flashes of temper, her impulsiveness that more often than not got them both into trouble. But he also remembered how, no matter how stressed or upset she was, Mary always knew how to handle their children.

So, driving away from the hospital, his eldest still and silent in the passenger seat, John prayed to Mary.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dean studying his reflection in the mirror. John wondered what he saw: the untouched beauty of his right side or the black patch covering half of the left side.

Covering where his left eye used to be.

The eye had _rolled_ across the floor, John had told Bobby over the phone later. That sonuvabitch had _plucked Dean's eye out_ and _rolled_ it across the floor like an unwanted grape.

He hadn't told Bobby about how Dean had just watched it in stunned silence, his remained eye wide as the other socket dripped gore and blood, like he couldn't believe that had actually happened. Like he couldn't believe that could happen.

Mary would know what to do now. Hell, _Sam_ would know what to do now. Instead, Dean only had John, who never knew how to deal with Dean's best defense: passive resistance. Not even an hour of out of the hospital and Dean was using his blind side to his advantage, shutting John out. Sam's open rebellion, as much as John hated it, was easier than this.

"Don't bring him here," Bobby had advised, voice eerily calm. Logical in a damned illogical situation. "Too much for him to trip over. Take him somewhere quiet where he won't have too much to break his neck over. And for God's sake, John, don't you dare leave that boy alone to go hunt!"

John kept repeating that last part to himself as he pulled into a nice, predictable motel on the outskirts of town. He wanted to hunt so bad he could taste it like whiskey on his tongue, wanted something corporeal to hit, stab, kill.

Instead, just like Dean had him, he had Dean, who was ignoring him as artfully as any cat, eyes still focused on his reflection. Even with Jethro Tull blaring, the Impala had never seemed so quiet. When John clicked it off, the silence was deafening. John had never understood that term before today.

"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't move."

No response. Fear made John's voice sharp. "Do you understand, Dean?"

Silence, thick and insidious. John licked his dry lips, opened his mouth to snap at him, but then Dean answered, voice quiet, "Yes, sir."

John swallowed. It felt like broken glass was sliding down his throat. He slammed the door shut and stalked to the motel office as quickly as he could, but the resignation in Dean's voice easily kept step.

His eyes burned. He told them to knock it the fuck off. Was it only two weeks ago that they had pulled into an identical motel, Dean laughing in the passenger seat? He hadn't needed to tell Dean anything; Dean always knew. Hell, Dean probably knew before John knew.

In another lifetime, John would have felt sorry for the fright he gave the motel clerk. In this one, he felt the bastard just should have felt lucky that John hadn't decided to pull out one of his wide eyes and offer it to his first born. Dean could use it more than that little shit could.

When he returned, Dean still sat like a statue in the passenger seat, lone eye still frozen on his reflection. John slammed the door again after he plopped in the driver's seat, hoping his son would turn and glare at him for hurting his lady.

Nothing.

Silently, John started the car.

Their room was at the end. Dean exited the car slowly, like he had been rolled across the floor instead of just his eye. John watched him like a hawk as he grabbed their duffels. Some part of him was still expecting Dean to turn around, flash a grin and offer to take both bags so John wouldn't hurt himself. Dean didn't. His remaining eye was wary, looking around like he was looking for traps.

John wanted to find that bastard and salt and burn his ass again.

"Room 14," he said gruffly. Dean's head jerked up like he had been shot, and John forced himself not to tense up. Dean's anxiety was contagious. "Follow me."

Later, John would curse himself for not keeping a better eye on Dean, their surroundings. There were two small steps leading up to their room, all but camouflaged into the sidewalk. John barely noticed them, just enough to unconsciously lift his feet. As he unlocked their door and pushed it open, he heard a thump behind him. Startled, he spun around to see Dean on his knees, shaking.

His right foot caught on the first step.

John almost -- _almost_ -- reached down to help him. Instead, he pretended that he hadn't noticed and hurried inside. He told himself that Dean would be thankful.

It took a moment but Dean followed him inside, hunched in on himself like a wounded dog. John threw their bags on the beds, didn't look at him.

"I'm going to get dinner," he announced. "I'll be right back."

He didn't look at Dean as he left the room, but John told himself that it was all right: Dean didn't look at him, either.

By the time John returned, their bags were as unpacked as they regularly were, Dean was carefully cleaning their weapons, and the mirror in the bathroom was broken. The glass had been swept up and trashed, leaving just shattered remnants where the mirror had been.

Sam was wrong. John could do understanding occasionally. He took a few deep breaths, didn't comment, finished washing his hands, and went to eat some pizza.

xoxoxox

"The damage is too severe."

"Surgery to replace the eye is beyond medicine at this moment, but we can provide your son with a glass eye."

"I'm sorry."

Mary would have punched the doctor who apologized. John was positive of that. She would have broken his damned nose while all John could do was stare.

Actually, John wouldn't put it past Mary to punch _him_ right now. The library in this damned town was too small to viably keep John away from the motel room as long as it did, and Dean may be half-blind but he was in no way dumb. He knew John was avoiding the room and John knew he was avoiding the room and they both knew the other knew and neither said a damned word about it.

They didn't say a damned word about much of anything, anymore.

The far side of the room had been converted into target practice, with the wall and floor more decimated than the target. Still, John nodded approvingly as he noticed several knives trembling around the outer edges of the target. Getting better.

Dean didn't look at him, even when the door clicked shut. The knife in his hand flew and thudded heavily against the wall. John nodded again. Far from the target but decent grouping. Still…

"You need to tighten it up," he said, putting their two cups of coffee on the small table. "It looks a little sloppy."

Dean's shoulders visibly tightened, but he didn't say anything. He just grabbed another knife. It flew and thudded a little closer but still not as close as John would like. Grouping had more to do with muscle memory than vision. Really, Dean should know better.

"There's coffee," John offered, sitting on the bed. He carefully looked away as Dean paused, his hands inches from another knife. Concentrating on his own cup, he pointedly didn't look at Dean as Dean walked over to the table. There was nothing on the floor between Dean and the table, but it didn't change the fact that Dean still walked like he was in a funhouse. He grabbed his coffee with two hands instead of one, each motion cautious like he might break rather than the cup. John watched out of the corner of his eye even as he kept his face towards his coffee.

Once upon a time it had been so easy to catch Dean when he fell.

Yesterday, Dean had burnt his mouth with his coffee, but he seemed to have it figured out now. The doctors had warned about the change of depth perception, and John had walked around the library with one hand over his eye, but he still couldn't figure out exactly how Dean saw the world now. Dean had his right eye stubbornly open now, tracking the coffee cup as he moved it closer to his mouth. John wanted to tell him to just close his damned eye and rely on his other senses. He had been drinking out of to-go cups for years. His body would know what to do.

But Dean never seemed to close his eye anymore. He studied everything with it like he had never seen anything before (_everything but John_), analyzing to a degree that would have shamed Sam.

Sam.

John tried not to think of Sam. It would be too easy to imagine his response to this situation.

_"Where were you when that sonuvabitch jumped your _son_? Where were you when he needed you?"_

John still didn't have an answer.

Dean lowered the cup with the same care with which he had picked it up and then returned to his knives. John concentrated on his coffee, then his journal, until the steady thumps stopped.

The next day, John returned with more coffee, only to find the motel room empty. By sheer force of will, he put the coffee on the table instead of just dropping it on the floor. He examined the salt lines, including the one lining the bathroom window. The broken mirror behind him mocked him, but John was very good at ignoring little things like that by now. Salt lines checked and found secure, John stood in the middle of the motel room and tried not to panic.

The familiar sound of the Impala door opening and closing helped.

John was outside before he knew what he was doing. Dean sat in the driver seat of the Impala, huddled over the steering wheel. Adrenaline still flooding his veins, John stalked over and wrenched the door open. "What --" he began, only to shut up.

Dean wasn't crying, but it looked like a damned close thing. He gripped the steering wheel with bleeding palms, the torn knees of his jeans barely visible beneath it. He was shaking, right eye reddened.

"They stared," Dean said dully. It was all he said. It was enough.

Feeling like he was watching his home burn all over again, John reached out and grabbed Dean, holding him close. He could feel Dean shivering in his arms.

John prayed to Mary, but per course for the last twenty years, she didn't answer.

"C'mon," he said after a long moment. "Let's get you cleaned up."

xoxoxox

Every hunter expected to die.

It was a fact of their life. Sooner or later, the prey would be faster, smarter, or just luckier. Every hunter walked into every hunt with that in mind. Hunters were more matter-of-fact about death than most morticians.

Few hunters expect to be maimed.

Third week in and Dean walked away from John, from the motel room, chin defiantly raised. This would be their last day in the motel. The itch under John's skin was more pressing than the cost of staying still so long, but John couldn't ignore either of them anymore. Dean was more competent now. He would be okay at Bobby's. And John would be…

John would be…

Hell, John didn't know. Just because Dean was getting better didn't mean he could hunt. He could hit the bull's-eye with the knives now, but that was a stationary target. Could he hit a moving one with a lot of visual interference? And what about shooting?

John _needed_ to hunt. These things _needed_ to be hunted. Dean understood that.

But what about what Dean needed?

He made one last trip to the library, hiding a couple books in his jacket, before going to the coffee shop and getting him and Dean coffee. As John drove back to the motel room, he wondered about Dean's ability to drive. John had his truck so Dean wouldn't be without the Impala, but what if he couldn't drive it? He was afraid that would break Dean's heart for good.

Dean still wasn't back when John returned, so John put the coffee down and finished packing their things. John then went into the bathroom to examine the shattered mirror. Too late, he wished he had put one of the sheets over it.

Too little, too late.

The motel door opened with a creak. "Dad?"

The heavy casualness in Dean's voice attracted John's attention more than the actual call. "Here," he answered, stepping out of the bathroom.

Just in time to see Dean drop a handful of cash on the bed.

"Screw beating them with one hand tied behind my back!" Dean crowed. "I can beat them with only one eye!"

John stared at the thick wad of cash, stunned. Pool, he realized, staring at Dean's wild grin, his eyes flickering to the chalk dust still coloring Dean's fingers. His son was practically glowing as he stared back at John. John thought of the hand-eye coordination involved not to just play pool but to _hustle_ pool. He thought of how well Dean must have done to attain such a haul.

More importantly, he realized that this was the first time since the accident that Dean had really _looked_ at him.

Dean's grin faltered as John calmly stepped over to him, and then he yelped when John pulled him into a crushing hug. Dean's patch scratched his jaw, but John didn't care. He dizzily wondered how long it would take for Dean to realize the patch's rakish potential.

When John pulled back, Dean was still grinning, but now he looked confused, too. John just cleared his throat.

"Come on," he said gruffly. "If we hurry, we can be at Bobby's by midnight. I'm sure he can rustle up a hunt for us."

The way Dean glowed then? Well. John figured Mary, wherever she was, definitely had to be grinning, too.


End file.
